Letter to John Clellon Holmes
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And then suddenly I'm standing by
The side of the road at Santa Barbara
Cursing the motorists of America who
Really are not giving rides anymore
About to give up, but standing just about
Where I can see the hind end of the yard tracks
Where if they make up a Frisco-bound freight
Train, I'll see the bloody caboose tagged on
Cursing, angry, supposedly I guess, or
Something blackly handsome in like an Alan Ladd
This gun for hire with murder, anger, screech
Stops this brand new 1955 Mercury Montclair
Persimmon color, brand new paint simonized
Job with blonde, beautiful blonde
In strapless white bathing suit at wheel and
Wearing little thin gold bracelet at sweet anklet
I run, jump in, she yawns, keeps yawning, wants to know if I can drive
Yes, I can drive, I'm bloody well afraid to look at her
The curl of her milk armpits, the flesh of her cream legs
The cream legs, curls, love, milk, wow, did I love that
Not looking but giggling
Hearing she has been driving all the
Way from Fort Worth, Texas without sleep
I say, "Oh, how would you like some Mexican Benzedrine?"
Which I have in big battered pack that I've been
Sleeping on beach in cold night of sea fog coast with
"Crazy!" she yells, I whip out my Benzedrine
Yanking out all my dirty underwear
And unspeakable Mexican raggedy junks and give her
She takes two very much, we stop at
Coke station and she mumps out jumping
The sweetest little perfect everything, you know
We swallow Benny's, by the time we've raised a hundred miles an hour
And once maybe a hundred ten to Santa Ana in the Guadalupe Valley
She's high, I'm high, we're talking and
Loving, talking, driving and sweating
And I can smell her sweet sweat and my own too
And we move on up to the San Luis Obispo bump
In the impossibly beautiful California dry blue sky sundowns
And she calls her daddy in San Fran to cable her money
She can pick up in Salinas